


Pleonexia

by destinies



Series: Tactics-Adjacent [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jealousy, POV Hux, Prostitution, Restraints, Sadism, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 17:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14795031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinies/pseuds/destinies
Summary: The day will come when Hux rises from the ashes of his latest humiliation to take everything from Kylo Ren, and Rey is no exception.--Armitage Hux finds a temporary way to deal with some inconvenient desires.





	Pleonexia

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt fic [originally posted to Tumblr](http://destinieswritten.tumblr.com/post/174359562638/29-hux-pov-in-tsverse-pretty-please-cherry-on) (bitter + preparation). It's set some time after chapter 20 of [Tactical Surrender](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183992/chapters/30156201), but should stand alright on its own.
> 
> Thanks to [Mixy]() for the beta!
> 
> If you like, you can come shout at me for this on [social](https://twitter.com/destiniesfic) [media](http://destinieswritten.tumblr.com/).

            Is there such a thing, Armitage Hux wonders, as a well-reputed house of ill-repute? Certainly, there is no good name for one. “Brothel” is the most straightforward term, and as these things go it’s fairly neutral, although not quite complimentary. One would think that those who deal in the galaxy’s oldest trade would have found a way to rebrand by now.

            Then again, perhaps it’s best to be straightforward. Clients know why they’re here and what they’re paying for. Everything else is just trappings. But trappings do matter, Hux muses as he waits in these rented chambers, one arm draped over the back over the low sofa upon which he reclines. The receiving room’s furnishings are simple yet elegant, as is his preference. The upholstery is dark to hide stains. The name of this place doesn’t matter. It is an undiscovered gem, the best whorehouse in the Unknown Regions, and although one would think competition isn’t stiff outside the boundaries of mapped space, the industry underwent a rapid expansion as the First Order swelled into being and colonized all they saw.

            Hux sips his tartine tea from the thermos he himself brought, having declined a servant droid’s offer of food and drink. He pays well for discretion, extra because these sessions are always exacting on the staff, even more to ensure that these rooms go unused by anyone else and are thoroughly cleaned prior to his arrival, and more on top of that, for security. Even so, one never knows when a servant or an ally will choose to stab one in the back.

            In a roundabout way, that’s why Hux is here. Recent events have left him with troublesome thoughts, and he knows that the longer he ignores them, the more persistent and intrusive they’ll become. Best to find an outlet, and quickly, before they become truly distracting.

            As such, his demands are a bit more specific today, different from his norm. The madame here knows his usual tastes: human, naturally blonde, no unnatural markings on the skin, some extra flesh, but only in the right places, and sturdy, durable. No fun for anyone if the evening ends too soon. But this time he made contact a few days in advance to ensure the madame would have someone on hand to suit his current preferences. Hux doesn’t care whether she finds willing recruits or buys her workers from slavers, as long as he gets his way.

            In the end, he always gets his way.

            Before long, there is a gentle rap at the chamber door. Hux takes one last bitter sip from his thermos, then sets it on a side table. “Enter,” he calls.

            The door slides aside, and a young woman enters, wearing a cream-colored synthsilk robe and visible signs of nervousness. Hux is both irritated that she seems willing to fold so early, and pleased to see that she’s very close to his specifications. She allows the door to close behind her and begins her approach, opening her mouth to no doubt introduce herself with some coquettish pseudonym. He holds up a hand to stop her.

            “You know who I am,” he says.

            The girl closes her mouth. Good, that’s good. No use standing there gawping. But she looks unsure about how to answer the question, and while Hux understands her trepidation given the recent political upheavals, he doesn’t want to waste time. “Honesty,” he directs.

            She nods. “Yes, sir. I do.”

            Hux wrinkles his nose, slightly. The accent is wrong. His fault for not including that in his list of demands. He’ll just have to ensure she speaks as little as possible.

            Not an unpleasant voice, though. A robust, resonant alto. He wonders how it’ll sound when she screams.

            He indicates the hexagonal rug in the center of the room. “Stand over there,” he says, his voice tight. “Where I can look at you.”

            To her credit, the girl doesn’t hesitate. She walks right to the center of the rug and stands there with her arms at her side, watching him. There is a slight spark of intelligence in those brown eyes, one that Hux is pleased to notice. The girl’s nervousness had worried him, but this one is no broken slaver’s pet. And her appearance is about right: early twenties, deep brown hair, delicate features, slender with narrow hips. Hux stands to get a better look, hands behind his back, circling her as a predator might stalk its prey. The girl’s eyes track him, and she begins to turn to follow his progress, but a slight shake of his head is all the instruction she needs to jerk back to face forward. Good girl.

            As Hux examines her from behind, he allows two fingers to trace a line from one scapula to the other over the silken fabric of her robe. The girl’s bosom heaves prettily as she inhales at the first touch, and he lets his fingers fall away. Were Hux a creature entirely of logic and reason, he’d say that he merely has to go through these motions every once in awhile to sate a primal biological urge. But while he prizes himself on his ability to analyze, to calculate, to strategize, he never makes that claim, because he knows it’s not quite true.

            He does _so_ enjoy himself.

            “Take this off,” he tells her.

            She does, a little slower than he’d like. She’s still pulling the sash free of its bow when he comes back around to her front. But something must give away his impatience, because she quickly sheds the robe once she sees his face. There is nothing underneath.

            Hux sighs, pleased. It is, of course, easier to note what is wrong than what’s right. Her shade is two shades too dark, and she is that shade all over, not paler in the places she kept covered while working for years in a desert. No faint freckles smattering her shoulder, the bridge of her nose. But oh, so very much is right. The curve of her ass, the wiry muscles on her arms, the tight abdominal core. He lays a gloved hand on it and then slides his hand up to cup one of her small breasts, run his thumb contemplatively over the hardening bud of her nipple. And as he does, he says, “Look at me, now.” 

            She’s half a head shorter than him, and her eyes first find his mouth, drawn in a narrow smile, before meeting his eyes. That little spark is still there, although she tries to hide it behind coy fluttering eyelashes, and Hux thinks she may not want him to see her true feelings. Her little body, stripped of all hair save that on her head, is tense with nervousness, and there’s a hint of reluctance to her thin lips. Unsurprising. Even if she’s a new arrival at this particular brothel, she would have heard stories. She would know what she’s in for.

            Or she would think she does.

            “You know who I am, pet,” Hux says, his voice a little breathy with anticipation. “You know what to call me.”

            The girl’s throat bobs with her swallow. She says, “Yes, Supreme Leader.”

            Hux can’t help but shiver at that. Had he been feeling particularly indulgent, he might have hired another player to watch them from that sofa, restrained, to growl and hiss and huff when Hux touches the girl, to wail, later, when he strikes her. But that’s what imagination is for, and Hux’s is up to the task. Besides, any playacting would fall woefully short of the real thing.

            He so badly wants to order her to kneel, to kneel before her Supreme Leader, to feel that pretty little mouth wrapped around his cock, but— it has to wait. He hasn’t broken her yet. He jerks his head at the next room, the bedchamber, just on the other side of a curtain. “Get on the bed,” he says. “You’ll find a spreader bar. Secure your ankles and wait for me.”

            “Yes, Supreme Leader,” the girl says again, dutifully.

            Just before she vanishes through the curtain, he says, “Oh, and no more of that talk now. Not until you’ve had more than you can bear and want to stop. Do you understand?”

            The girl hesitates, and then she says, “I do.”

            “Good.”

            Then she is out of sight, and Hux takes a minute to collect himself before returning to her. He is not wearing his uniform — he won’t sully it with this — but he still wears a number of layers, stiff and formal, and he has to undo his jacket to access his belt, slip it free of the loops of his trousers. He keeps his gloves on, and relishes the whisper-crack of leather on leather as he slides his belt over his palm, noting the perfect shine of the buckle. It’s a rudimentary tool, as these things go, but classic, and there’s a reason for that. There was a point in Armitage Hux’s young life where he found himself on the receiving end of such lashings. His father— well, who could say what his father had meant, in truth? Perhaps he meant to teach Hux obedience. He had taught him something else, instead.

            Hux much prefers doling out punishment to taking it.

            Torture is an art, one Hux studied and improved as he rose through the First Order’s ranks. Kylo Ren, for all his mysticism-fueled rages, is an amateur. Ren would use a bludgeon when what's required is a scalpel. So Hux does wonder, as he slides the belt over his palm, how Ren managed to bend Rey to him in so short a time. Oh, Ren loves the girl, true, but he’s an idiot with no idea how to handle that. Hux has no doubt that Rey’s first few days aboard the First Order flagship were thoroughly unpleasant. Even so, Ren had somehow managed to coax loyalty out of her.

            Or perhaps she believes she loves him back.

            Revolting.

            But what is bent may yet be unbent, and bent again more favorably. Rey will learn. He’ll break her first, until she’s past the point of crying or begging, until she’s been molded to fit him. Then she’ll praise him, respect his proper title, thank him for freeing her of delusions, as she should. Yes, the day will come when Hux rises from the ashes of his latest humiliation to take everything from Kylo Ren, and Rey is no exception.

            The girl in the other room will play that role, and she will do for now. After all, this night serves a dual purpose: preparation and satisfaction. He would like to think he will only need one or two such sessions before these fantasies abate.

            But he knows that’s not quite true, either.


End file.
